Some Nights
by piaffe417
Summary: Sequel to "Some Days." Some nights, they don't go straight home after work.


**Author's Note**: I'm not a big fan of adding on to my stories. (Heck, I have problems making them more than one chapter most of the time.) But my muse disagreed with me this time when Daze-dly suggested that I write more for my story "Some Days." Just as I thought to myself, "More? But there is no more" the first sentence for this fic popped into my head. The rest is… well, right here. So thanks, Daze-dly – this one's for you. It's a little different from its predecessor, but I think it's up to par. You be the judge.

**Disclaimer**: Let's look at this as a philosopher would, shall we? Here goes: Can anyone _really_ own a character? Or do they own us? How do you define ownership in the first place? Are any of us really here at all or are we simply a brain in a vat being manipulated to think that this is real? The only certainty here is that I'm not making any money from this.

_We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.__" Orson Welles_

Some nights, they don't go straight home after work.

Some nights, no matter how mentally and physically exhausting the day has been and no matter how much they crave the simplicity of a comfortable couch, a mug filled with steaming tea or decaf coffee and a few hours of mindless television, they leave One Police Plaza together and head for the dim and smoky refuge of a local bar. It doesn't matter which bar in particular because they don't go for the traditional reasons that people go to bars in the late evening hours. They don't go for the atmosphere, the drink specials, or to meet new people – the quieter the setting and the flatter the beer the better on most nights. In fact, it doesn't matter whether they imbibe one drink or two or even three, for they barely taste the alcohol as it goes down or feel the burning trail it leaves in the back of their throats. It doesn't matter how late they stay out – or how early into the morning hours, in some instances - even when they have to be in court first thing the next morning looking pressed and authoritative. All that matters is that they are together for just a few more hours.

The alternative is going home alone. On some nights, being alone is simply unacceptable.

On those nights that they go out for drinks, they will have just closed the book on a particularly trying case, one that hit a little too close for comfort or that tested even their hardened psyches in its utter depravity. If they are stuck on a particularly puzzling clue or theory, they never go out for drinks, as it only further muddles and dulls their thoughts. Caffeine, on the other hand, is most welcome in such instances.

On those nights that they go out for drinks, the shift will have changed behind them in the bullpen, their fellow major case detectives departing for the warmth of their homes and families, and their captain will have parted from them with the words, "Why don't you two knock off for the night?" The coffee they stopped sipping at shortly after lunch will be cold and stagnate in their cups and their shoulders will be tight from their long stretch of hunching over paperwork. And yet they linger, pens finding a rhythm with their shared breathing and eyes only lifting periodically to assess the other's progress, as though such visual confirmation is required to remind each that the other is there. (It isn't really necessary, as tuned in to each other as they are, but sometimes they will look up at the same time and share a comfortable smile that acknowledges their mutual exhaustion and also their stubborn determination to see the finish.)

On those nights that they go out for drinks, she will move first, breaking the reverie they've fallen into by letting her pen fall onto her desk with the flimsy clatter of plastic striking metal and sitting up straighter to work out the kinks. On particularly late nights, she will also yawn and stretch as though waking from a deep sleep. Her first movement – in fact, the first breath she takes that is out of sync with their rhythm - will catch his attention, so that by the time she is finished stretching he has come to a stopping place in his own work and is looking at her with a bemused and tired smile, eyes a bit bleary from squinting at the papers before him.

"I quit," she'll tell him on those nights and the finality in her tone would indicate a permanence to her declaration, a sort of ultimately arrived at conclusion, to anyone who did not know her well. Her partner, however, recognizes that her words are merely the product of a tired mind and that her retirement will be short-lived.

On those nights that they go out for drinks, he will nod in response to her statement and rise, fetching both of their overcoats from nearby hooks and handing hers wordlessly over to her. They don't bother to tidy their workspaces before they leave – both realize the futility in trying to organize what is ultimately (and will ever remain) chaos into anything that makes sense to outsiders. It's more important that they're able to pick up right where they left off when they arrive in the morning.

On those nights that they go out for drinks, morning is always closer than they would like for it to be and peace of mind often seems too far away.

On those nights, they'll step into the elevator and wage a short debate over the merits of various establishments in the neighborhood of One Police Plaza (and the greater Manhattan area) before settling on a choice. They make the same choice every time - always ending up at O'Malley's, just around the corner from her apartment - but discuss their options regardless, more as an exercise in reaffirming to each other that they'd prefer not to go home just yet than part of some sort of decision-making process.

"Feel like Chauncey's?" he'll ask, leaning back against the wall of the elevator and cocking his head to the side in anticipation of her answer. His arms will cross in front of him and he will hold his much-abused brown leather notebook with an ease that makes it look more like an extension of his body than an accessory. On those nights that they go out for drinks after work, he doesn't allow himself to leave it behind.

"Nah," she'll shake her head and the motion will cause a few wisps of hair to cover her face. She'll run a tired hand over her head to pull the hairs back into place and add, "Too many cops there at this hour."

"O'Malley's then?" he'll ask.

She'll nod by way of answer.

Some nights, they agree to go to O'Malley's and don't speak on the way there.

On those nights, they'll share a cab to the bar and the only conversation that will be exchanged is that between her and the driver, for her partner is always willing to let her take the lead. It isn't a gesture that is chivalrous, nor is it overly deferent to the ideals of feminism. Rather, it's more in tune with the balance of their partnership. Sometimes he leads and sometimes she does. Everything is like this with them – yin and yang, everything equal and everything shared – and they even split the cab fare down to the last penny when they arrive.

On those nights that they go out for drinks after work, he'll hold the door to the bar open for her (a gesture that _is_ chivalrous, for he was well brought up), allowing the scent of cigarette smoke and the din of late-night conversations to waft into the dark outside before they shuffle in and are immersed in it completely. The pair might exchange a pleasantry or two with any fellow law enforcement officers they encounter seated at the bar, but there is never any conversation that follows. There is an unspoken agreement between cops that nursing a beer at O'Malley's is a solitary act and is not to be interrupted unless a specific invitation is extended.

On those nights that they go for drinks, they always choose a booth or table at the back of the bar, as far away from the other patrons as possible. They place their orders – usually foreign, dark ale for him and domestic beer from the tap for her – and sit and sip for a few moments, cloaking themselves in their own individual thoughts and letting the beer settle pleasantly and heavily into their stomachs. They will not have spoken to each other since their ride down in the elevator but the silence is never strained and the chain of communication is never broken. They converse with their eyes and their bodies when they are not using words – a lean, a twitch, a blink are all signals that indicate what they are thinking and feeling and speak in far louder volumes than words ever could.

On those nights that they go for drinks, they don't need to speak right away. Just being together is enough to fight the silence that manifests itself when they are apart.

Some nights, they go out for drinks after work and the silence presses anyway.

On those nights, he'll be the one to speak first and will do so in a halting fashion that is different from even his normal pattern of occasionally staggered speech. The words will fall from his lips as though they are drops of water emerging from a dry pipe, a trickle at first and then coming in a great gush.

"Long week," he'll begin, swirling the dark, foamy liquid in his glass like a psychic working a crystal ball, seeking answers from the patterns the bubbles form before they break apart and vanish.

"Killer week," she'll agree, not caring that she's just made an awful pun.

He'll give a slow blink, then, and the barest whisper of a smile as he catches the unintentional turn of phrase. It endears her to him and his comfort in the moment they share will allow him to relax his large frame into the seat as he continues to swirl his ale. "Just when I think we've seen it all… I never would have thought…"

"No one would have," she'll cut him off, but not rudely. Her words are more an extension of his own. "That's the real challenge of what we do. We're not mind readers, you know."

"He – he was so desperate…" he'll start to form the thought, only to find that it's evaporated as quickly as the carbonation in his ale. He won't meet her eyes as he speaks. "And yet… he – he wouldn't ask for help, wouldn't open up. He let all of that desperation fester until the only way that it could come out was in the form of rage…"

She will nod in time with his words but not speak, for to speak now would stop the flow of expression coming from her partner and cause him to bottle it up like the man of whom he speaks. She and her partner understand loneliness, both through what they've seen in their work and through deep and personal experience.

On those nights that they go out for drinks after work, they can share this unspoken loneliness and not feel ashamed.

"I keep thinking that if I can understand these things, I can… I can be more effective somehow," he'll shake his head, disappointed in his inability to comprehend as much as he would like to. The irony is, of course, that he already knows more than most of the other detectives in their squad (and in the whole NYPD) combined.

On those nights that they go out for drinks after work, she is quick to point this out.

"It's not about you," she'll soothe him, and in the process soothe herself. This is a role that she is completely at home in; the reassurance that she gives to him when he struggles in turn gives her purpose. "People will still find new and terrible ways to kill each other long after we've started drawing our pensions. We can't predict it, only pick up the pieces after everything is done."

"I know," he'll scowl at the truth she speaks, then ultimately lift his eyes to hers for the first time since sitting down. Her gentle gaze and understanding expression will elicit another faint smile and she'll clink her nearly-empty glass against his in a gesture of camaraderie, then swallow the dregs and gesture for another round from the waitress passing by.

Some nights, they go out for drinks after work and drink more than just two rounds.

On those nights, he'll watch her carefully over the rim of his fourth or fifth glass, watching for the telltale signs of intoxication that can come so easily over someone of her diminutive stature – a slight slurring of her words, a gentle swaying in her seat, or a general heaviness about her countenance. But she holds her alcohol well and never fails to match him beer for beer.

On those nights, he is certain that the quiet bothers her in the same way that it bothers him. It comforts him to know that they have each other.

Some nights, they go out for drinks after work and the bar empties around them.

On those nights, she'll watch him across the table and observe the slight discomfort that overcomes him as last call approaches and the crowd thins. Last call means that they will soon both be on their way to their respective homes – alone. She will not be there to lend support again until they meet at One Police Plaza the next morning and she knows that he dreads the next few hours. The case has been difficult, his brain is overwrought, and his apartment is always too quiet, the echoes that would otherwise be company stifled by the number of books piled around on shelves, chairs, and the floor.

On those nights, she sometimes wishes that they never had to part, that she could just be with him and hold onto him always, cradling him in her embrace the way that she does her nephew and keeping the rest of the world at bay.

And on those nights, when the beer has flowed a bit too much and the conversation and the case have struck just shy of home, each thinks for a moment - just a single and short-lived moment - about not spending the next few hours alone, acutely conscious of the pressure of their knees resting against each other underneath the table and imagining the feeling of flesh that is not dulled by cloth. But then reality taps each one on the shoulder and kindly reminds them of the damage that could be done in such a moment of weakness, the damage to their partnership – their friendship – more so than to their careers. Their careers are meaningless if they don't have their partnership to sustain them and their partnership is far too precious to sacrifice in a few weak moments.

Some nights, though, the loneliness is so acute that each wonders if maybe the sacrifice would be worth it.

On those nights they always depart O'Malley's shortly before last call – sometimes so shortly that they hear the bartender announce it as the door closes behind them with a hissing click. The chill of the night air seems to rise from the sidewalk and swirl around them. Everything is still, their footsteps mingling weakly with the sound of a far-off siren and a barking dog.

"Court at nine tomorrow?" he'll ask as they stand at an angle – not facing each other, which is too intimate and might cause one to overstep the boundary that they cling to.

"Better be their by eight forty-five," she'll tell him.

He'll nod and flag down a passing cab for her, opening the door so that she can slide across the seat. Yet his hand will linger on the door and he will hold onto her with his eyes even after she is situated comfortably.

"Good night," he'll say, voice tinged with a sense of loss as he sends her on her way without him and seems to hear the quiet creeping up on stealthy feet.

"See you," she says as more of a promise than a good-bye, her eyes memorizing his features before she parts.

He'll shut the door then, tucking her in for the night as much as he is able, hand patting the top of the cab in a warm gesture that she feels even through the cold metal. Her last view of him will be of his broad back as he strolls up the sidewalk in the opposite direction, waiting for the next cab to come along and take him the rest of the way home.

Some nights, they don't go straight home after work. Other nights, they miss each other just the same.

FIN


End file.
